HD 'Bringing Us Home' 12 in 13 Nights
by tigersilver
Summary: AU: EWE: Hogwarts 8th Year. A day in the life.


**Title:** Bringing Us Home  
**Author:** **tigersilver**  
**Characters:** Harry/Draco  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warning(s):** Explicit slash; Potter POV  
**Word Count:** 4, 100+/-

**Prompt: ** **hd_seasons** – 13 Nights of Smut, Prompt #12 (vampire; suck)

**Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary:** Hogwarts; Eighth Year. A day in the life…

**Note:** This is for **alaanafair** 's birthday and a belated giftie for **a_execution*** , for _her_ birthday (and as encouragement as well, luv!) This is to thank the Mods of **hd_seasons** for being incredibly wonderful all throughout and to thank all the other participants for providing me the delicious prospect of hours of happy fangirling over your submissions—I can't wait to read them and be squeeful! And this is to wish everyone who's following this frabjous Fest a safe and Happy Hallowe'en! Tiger

"Harry, that's atrocious. Here, hold still." Hermione frowns at me when she flicks her wand but at least I'm decent. No longer look like the victim of a vampire with terribly bad aim and an overbite. No, I just look like my usual, really. Except that this year I've a new wardrobe, because _my_ personal vampire is a clotheshorse and rather poncey and he 'simply couldn't abide' by what was in there from before.

"Yeah, mate, atrocious." Ron also frowns and examines the marks with a critical eye, as if ranking them against some Richter Scale of Excessive Use of Suction. I could tell him Draco would win hands down every time on that, but I don't bother. I think he's surmised it, you know?

Anyway, yeah. Stripped me down, right there in the off-the-rack shop in Marginal (the new place, that carries all the Muggle-influenced shite; hoodies and acid-washed Levis, hundred Galleon trainers and so forth) and practically forced me to empty my account at Gringott's on all this clothing. Well, he shagged me first, up against the changing room's mirror, which nearly cracked (like I need that!), but that was more to butter me up, so I'd be distracted and go along. You know Wizarding lube sticks to magical glass something awful? Took three of my Evanescos to clean it and two of his to have it back streak-free. Next time we use the curtain divider. There's a spell that makes them hard as concrete and as sturdy. Likely be needing that.)

"Thanks, Hermione." I smile, because here's Hermione looking after me still, though we're all adults now. School kiddies yet, but technically adults. Draco likes to lord that over me, that he's my elder. Says it means he's more often right, having that two months on me, so I scoff and point out a few examples of adults we've both known and _don't_ admire and then he shuts it, right smart. Then, after a minute or two, sulking, he says I should appreciate him more, as an example of what _not_ to do in one's 'wild youth'.

So I have to tease him then, and call him a 'bad boy', and a 'poor influence', and that leads to wrestling (three-quarters of the time our conversations lead to wrestling. You'd think we couldn't be civil. Well…) He has to mention all the many rules I've flouted and then somehow we're at daggers drawn again, but not really. Which is how I ended up going to Slug's class (it's not really the same old Potions, not without that greasy git Snape) with my throat all bruised up again. Draco really fancies throat. I think he does have vamp in him somewhere, or at least Veela. Should see his face when I say that—not pretty!

Though he likes the Veela idea, secretly. All that sex appeal, you know? He's a vain git, yes, but I don't mind it. Makes it all the easier to jolly him out of the sulks.

Maybe I should expand on that: Draco really fancies sucking on things. Sugar quills, lollies, my dick, my earlobes. He's sucked my elbows more than once and I nearly came just from that. Got an amazing tongue on him, the berk. It's longer than mine (we've checked) and agile, and very, very wet. And hot. Like a furnace, all that steamy velvet-bumpy flexing surface. He sticks it down my throat (the inside) and snogs me and I literally almost expire again, just from the flutter and squirm of it, poking away at my gullet. That doesn't sound so brilliant, does it? But trust me—it is. Really, really, it _is_. It's a bloody muscle, that tongue. He's expert with it.

"Mate," Ron wants to know at luncheon today, "are we practicing this evening?"

"Huh?" I ask. I was late to lunch yet again—got caught in the corridor coming back up from Slytherin after Potions and assaulted, yeah? "Hmmm, what?" I remember to reply, finally.

"Practice," Ron says patiently, and Hermione shoots us both this Look, like we're mental. "Scrum. You know, quaffles, bludgers, hoops—snitch?" he adds hopefully. He pokes me, but I'm still sporting a boner under my robes and I'm a bit distracted. We were nearly caught out this time, by Slug's new assistant, Karper. Nosy sod; reminds me of Percy, always poking his beak in wherever it's not wanted. See, we've a whole assortment of classrooms and lounges down in Slytherin we use, me and Draco, and it was all peachy till the Board hired this berk to help out Slug, as he was shaky still, after the War. Which is fine, and I don't mind it; it's only that the arse could be Filch all over, the way he tromps around, muttering. As if the world were going to end because two students are caught snogging where they shouldn't be—er, shagging, actually. We usually go well beyond a snog if we've more than five minutes strung together.

See, Draco's like me—so damned grateful to be alive, we have to, erm, celebrate it. By shagging. Intimate physical contact, continuously. It's a convincing reminder that our skins are intact, yet. We enjoy it.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice interrupts my musings (well, they were dirty, anyway, and likely not at all suitable for lunch in the Great Hall). "Ron's speaking to you! Pay attention—he's looks as if he'll break out in sobs if you don't."

"Oi!" Ron says, and pokes her. "No fair!" They giggle goo-goo eyed at one another, the idiots, and then _they're_ distracted, so I return to my favourite occupation: watching Draco from across the room, whilst he's eating. He's very oral, you know? Can bring me off eating toast with marmalade. Very nearly does, too. He's having the pot roast with mash and green beans today. What he does to green beans (sucking out the tiny little pea-like things in them, one by one) should be called criminal. I love it; could watch all day long.

"Just ask him to come sit with us, Harry," Hermione orders sharply, losing patience with me, and turns back to Ron with a little huff and hair bounce. She biffs him on the shoulder, so he listens to her, as he's scowling a little into his tower of mash. "Get used to it, Ron. Maybe if Draco's here, they won't both be so—"

I don't hear what we're 'so'; I'm cocking an eyebrow at Draco and jerking a shoulder. He correctly interprets this as an invitation and rises to begin his elegant stroll over, his plate and goblet floating along after him. We've gotten pretty fair at this communicating-without-verbalizing thing. Hermione says it's because we're so similar, we think alike. We're in tune. I say it's because we've been forced to develop a semaphore system if we ever want to get some, as there's always other people, people, people.

"Potter," Draco drawls from his great height, the sod. He suppresses a sneer and manages a polite nod to my mates. That's what I do, too, when faced with Zabini and Parkinson—be polite, even if it fair yanks me. "Budge your arse over before I bite it."

Well! That's an image I could've done without—not that I don't like it, as I do, but not at luncheon, when I know we've both Transfiguration (NEWTS level!) right after! Him biting my arse is pretty much tantamount to him shagging it, and that idea leaves me nearly drooling all over my pot roast sandwich. In fact, I think I do, because Hermione makes that girly 'Ew!' face of hers.

"How can you put pickled beets on that, Potter?" Draco wants to know, staring at my sandwich with much the same stare I use on dissected Flobberworms. "Horseradish sauce I can see, but not root vegetables. Plebe."

"Git," I shoot back, and he grins, ready to let loose the barrage. If I let him, he'll start this pseudo-banter thing that'll escalate. He always does this in public, whenever we're together and can be seen. I think it's because he thinks everyone else expects it of him, given our history, but trust me, it can be tiring. So I take a big bite of my sandwich, chew twice to make it a paste, and then I lean over—he's shoved Ron down on the bench, and Ron's still grumbling nastily over it—and I snog him. With gravy and beets dripping and a double helping of that horseradish sauce, so it's pretty gross.

But it isn't. He's punched me right on the kisser and then we snogged through the blood from my split lip once. Salty, sweet; brilliant that. Gravy and pickling spice is just as good. It's the taste of Draco beneath it that sends my gut into knots and starts this chain reaction. Two seconds into it and I'm breathing funny and have a hard-on the size and camber of my old broom.

Trust me, it's brilliant. He thinks so, as he doesn't struggle. Ron's making retching noises beside him, and Hermione's got her latest text up firmly before her, a bare inch away from her quivering nose, ignoring us for all she's worth, but we could care less. I begin to think we might end up skiving Transfiguration, after all.

But we don't, mores' the pity. I'm surrounded by natural-born swotters, what with Hermione and Draco, and poor Ron and I haven't a chance to kick back and skive off _anything_, much. It's a crying shame, but my marks have improved overall since I've been with him. He's got this way with incentives, you know? The more points I earn in classes, the more pleasure, and that works fine with me. I can't do much in return as an incentive (he and Hermione are still engaged in a furious battle to the death over who'll end up Valedictorian) but I can do my best to relax him. He's a tense bugger, and sometimes I swear he'll hemorrhage if I don't take him in hand. Bottles everything up, so I do my best to suck all that poisonus rot out of him. This tongue thing's mutual, see?

We manage to last through Transfigurations, but only because Ron slides in on one side and Hermione on the other, flanking, and Draco's forced to sit behind us. Which gives him a chance to breathe down my neck, literally. First he leans over me to borrow a quill and I hear this 'Muffliato!' in my ear and then he's biting my earlobe and licking me right across the nape, the sod. Then it's parchment he requires, from Hermione's endless store, and that's a bruise laid on I can feel, right on the tendon that attaches my head to my shoulders. Wicked! Then it's to check something complicated McGonagall's just said about Transfiguring Wizarding space, and he's panting on me something fierce and whispering, "Want to fuck you senseless, Harry, right this _minute_," and that's it for me. I'm done up, as it's all I can do to not cum right then and there, and I'll be begging Hermione for notes after, right on schedule. But at least I don't earn detention for moaning my answer to his suggestion aloud, which is brill. McGonagall's fond of me, and now Draco too, in a weird way. We're her 'boys' and she dotes as only a Scottish spinster can, which is buggering convenient when that prat Karper decides he wants to make an example of us after stumbling across us going it at it like Humdingers in the heat in the dungeons after curfew. Poor sod. He never makes it stick, and I can see it bothers him like anything, but he was abroad during the War, you see, so he doesn't _know_.

McGonagall _knows_. Ron and Hermione, too, of course. But they use the Common Room or Hermione's posh Head Girl quarters, so it's not like they've much to complain of.

After Transfigurations, we've DADA, which we teach ourselves, mainly. If I don't go on to Aurors (less and less appealing these days and Draco agrees), then I've a standing invite to teach it. McGonagall's a bit of an alright; she's told Draco he could stay and do the same for Potions. I don't think poor Karper's going to last the Term, yeah? He's not part of Hogwarts the way we are, right, and he's not got the perspective we do, Draco and I.

Then there's a break, briefly, and we end up in the Room, which is our territory, as somehow we've Marked it, same as Voldemort Marked Draco, but in a much nicer manner. Seems that our presence is so strong in it after the Fiendfyre, Hogwarts has decided it's ours to keep, the Room. Kind of eerie, but in a good way. Draco wasn't best pleased at first, but the Room cleaned itself up nicely—no sign of soot nor damage, no odour of death or musty old Cabinets—and did itself over in our House colours, mingled. A little reminiscent of Christmas, all that red, gold, silver and green, but festive-like. Cheery.

And it's got the best, most massive, springiest four-poster I've ever the pleasure of shagging in, the Room. And thick carpets, a hearth we can Floo through as we want, and views of the grounds and the Lake that are undeniably beautiful, as the season slowly wends it's way to winter. Two desks, nice ones, matched up to face each other, with attending bookcases; a sofa (butter leather, in burgundy), floor pillows (amazing what can be done with those, really) and a full selection of sex toys and study materials. Rather a cross between a bordello done up for Yule and a dorm room. Weird, but it works.

And it's _ours_. No one else can enter. We've tested it, Draco and I. It's our domain and now, I suppose, it's our home. Oh, Draco's got the Manor and I've got Grimmauld and the Burrow, but if we stay (and I rather think we're both planning to, though we've not got 'round to officially discussing it), this will be where we spend our time outside of Lectures and herding Firsties through the hallways when we're officially Profs.

At the moment, we've a half-hour to ourselves, no interruptions, which means my neck's a goner and I'll be bow-legged all through Quidditch practice. Draco's got a tool on him that won't leave off. And I know just how to make it thrum and throb, and drive him mental with wanting me. Brilliant, you know? Like lock and key, we fit together, and who would have ever sorted that?

Hermione, evidently. She's snickering at us when we come down to dinner, and she keeps it up after Ron and I are returned from our scrum, grubby and sore. She and Draco are fast friends, which leaves me gasping and Ron apoplectic, but it was her Muggle swotting aids that caused it, and then the mechanical pencils her parents send her by the dozens. Draco loves them. Swoons over them, and borrows them all the time—permanently. And Post-Its. Loves those, too, the wanker. Think I'll dress up in only wee yellow sticky notes one fine day and see what he does—'cept the stickum likely would rip out my short hairs something fierce, so no, _not_. Bad idea.

"It was good, right, Harry?" Ron wants me to agree, and I do, and then Dean and Ginny are budging down the bench so we can go over some of the finer points of our practice, along with all the other members of the team. Draco glares at me from Slytherin table, as he knows he's not welcome at the moment (_not _during strategy sessions; those are sacred to Gryffs and Ron would have my bollocks) and we'll not see each other till the Library study session. In silent retaliation, he slurps up his pasta as if it were my dick, and there I am, with marinara dripping down my chin where I've missed my mouth entirely, from watching him use those lips and that tongue like _that_. And the swallow? He swallows and it's enough to have me randier than Aberforth's goats. I grow horns and paw the ground, snorting. Pathetic.

Ponce.

Right, swotting. That's all we do, these days, and all we'd ever do, if Hermione had her way. In the Library, where we've claimed the largest table, much to the avid disappointment of the Ravenclaw contingent, is our camp. But we're the fabled Eight Years, so they subside, glaring and giggling (I'm ensconced in Draco's lap tonight) and take themselves off. Hermione frowns at us (Draco tells her repeatedly to watch with that, as it'll give her permanent wrinkles, and she's slapped him again, when he said it first, the little firecracker, just because he _is _a git. I'd no objection, naturally—she's my mate, of course, and Draco shouldn't tease her so. But he apologized prettily enough after and brewed up some smoothing cream, so they're all pally again, which is just grand. Somehow, though, it took him longer to forgive me for taking her side, which is par for the course. We got over that hump, though, humping. Sex, the great panacea.)

In any case, tonight's topic is Astronomy and Draco's the resident expert, so we're all passing his letter-perfect notes 'round and studying up on what he tells us. He'll make an excellent Prof; has this air about him, sort of slyly knowledgeable, but not smarmy or too, too arrogant. Like he truly wants to share what he knows, but he also wants his audience to work for it. It's challenging, rather, and exactly what Ron and I need for inspiration. Ron can't abide Draco knowing more than he does, so it's all about competition with him. Me, I don't mind so much, but I also can't allow the git the upper hand all the time or he'd run me ragged, so I have to keep up. As I mentioned, my marks have never been better.

Hermione goes off to her Head Girl duties after a few hours of intensive swotting, and Ron heads back to Gryffindor tower. I don't sleep there, not for ages. We have the Room, and I'm not giving that up for Ron's snoring and Dean and Seamus doing the nasty without benefit of silencing spells. They always forget. Poor old Nev. Don't know how he stands it. Likely doesn't care, though, as he's in Ravenclaw nightly, shagging Luna.

I'm in the Room, with Draco, by midnight. We've taken our usual stroll, a pleasue which we both partake regularly, out of habit. We ensure all's well with Hogwarts whilst we at it, as if we're seriously patrolling, and that goes a long way towards easing McGonagall's peace-of-mind. Which is yet another reason why Karper can croak and mutter all he likes but we'll never serve another detention, not here. Give them out, perhaps, but not serve them.

By a minute past the hour, I'm naked as the proverbial jay, and Draco's got that tongue out. Back to being the sacrifice to a bloodthirsty monster, that'd be me. Not that I mind. I'm all slicked and more than raring to go in minutes—Merlin, I've been ready since this morning, when I snuck back over to the Tower for fresh kit and a shower and Ron spent all his time I was there wincing and absolutely not looking at me too closely in the showers. See, I'm all over marks. It's not just my neck. I've bruises on my hips from Draco's fingertips pressing in and nibbles on my thighs and half-moon indentations on my arsecheeks. Too, we tried using our ties, once, for some sort of bondage-play Draco read about, and when I was sporting those (wrists and ankles, and how Ron knew what they were, I don't care to know), my best mate fainted dead away on the boy's lav floor and gave himself concussion. Madame had to come and that was a great to-do, I can tell you!

But, as I've said, Draco's not satisfied with me having clear skin anywhere on my person, so he's chomping and sucking away like a champion, and my cock's fit to burst. He's feeling needy tonight, I suppose, (or maybe it's the opposite), so he straddles me after flipping me on my back (those extra-long arms of his and mile-long legs not only allow him to menace to the lower Years, they also serve him all too well when we wrestle over who's topping or bottoming. Unfair advantage, yes, but then I can be quite tricky, myself.) Right, yes. Moving on.

He's got a handful of conjured lube and he's perched on me. I'm about mindless by then, watching. He's just so bloody fascinating; everything about him. All pale and smooth and cool, like a vanilla ice lolly, and then one sees the silvery marks from the Sectumsempra I cast, not realizing, and the very faint remains of the Mark, and various other scars from what Voldemort did to him, that last year. He's far from perfect, Draco, but he _is_, still. For me. _To_ me.

Well, I'm rolling my hips because I can't keep still, not when he's got three fingers buried up his hole and I can see the crinkled pink edges clenching, like a tiny little mouth. He smiles and it's all about who's winning this battle.

"Like that, do you, Harry?" he purrs and I groan. I'm so enthralled by him and the prospect of jamming my cock in, I can hardly nod. "Well, come on, then. Show me what you've got, Potter," he taunts, and he knows (that git!) what happens inside my chest when he calls me 'Potter' in that tone of voice. I make some strangled rumbly sound—not human, I swear—and then he's on me, sliding down my dick like a bright banner lowered, and I cease all other activity, including breathing, just to enjoy it.

Die of it, rather. It's almost the end of me, right there. He's tight, Draco is, and he's only ever bottomed for me, and then not often, so there's no easy entry. This is war, in a way; my cock over his muscles and the only goal before me is to hit his prostate before his sphincter cuts me off at the root.

I manage (I always do, heh!) and he's all melty and slack-jawed, and 'Potter' becomes 'Harry!' and we're in for a romp of a run. I go up on my elbows and twist, hand out to catch him, and he lets himself fall slowly. I like face-to-face. Snogging Draco whilst I'm fucking him speechless is Jammy Dodgers on Frogs on Fortesque's best dark chocolate with mocha chips. It's Devonshire cream on current scones; it's the Snitch in my fist; it's all that is great and marvelous and mind-blowing. I adore it, and so much so I can't express it, usually. So I say his name, over and over, and he's spitting out bits and pieces of mine, along with 'Fuck!', which is what we're in the midst of, thank ever so, and, well. The tension builds from there.

I'm pounding away like the hammers of Hades and he's squirming, with his beak in my hair and his lips latched on my neck. I bite him on the shoulder; he licks me and nuzzles and that's just the best thing, ever, especially as he's got his pelvis rocking and rolling and we are so close, now.

He gasps once, and since I've got my hand on his dick and have been pumping away like mad, he's spurting right after, right through my knuckles. I rub it all down his chest, his hot cum, and thrust that last, final time—killer instinct, you know—and then I'm moving my dick through my own cum within him, and Merlin, there is nothing in the world better than this!

It's only quarter after, when I surface and cock an eye at the clock face. He's still breathing hard beneath me. I shift so I don't crush him (he whinges, you know) and we lie there, impossibly entangled, for what seems like hours.

"I love you," he remarks, when he's no longer panting. It's so casual, as if it's the weather or the prospects of the Cannons in the Prelims he's speaking of, but it's not.

"And I love you, git," I say, and that's Merlin's honest truth, eternal. I do, you know, warts and all, and he can leave sodding love bites anywhere he pleases till the cows come to byre and the sun explodes. Because that's what they are: love bites. Love's not all roses and hearts; hasn't been for us, especially. We've fought, and still do. We've hexed one another upon occasion, really nasty ones, and we've not spoken for hours. We've agreed to disagree and we've compromised, as well, and we always have here, the Room, to return to, at the end of each and every day. It allows us what we both require, I think, and it's home because of it. I've found him here, you know, so many times, trying to get in, when he was frantic over the Cabinet. He's discovered me here, as well, bashing his way where he shouldn't have back when Umbridge ruled the day, but you know, I don't half think that wasn't Hogwarts itself, chivvying us along surreptitiously.

Bringing us home.

Fin


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